Time Signatures
by AbaddonNox
Summary: A possibly ongoing series of drabbles/oneshots concerning the Master. 1: Common Time: the Master's viewpoint/perspective of his final moments in "The End of Time".


Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Doctor Who. Furthermore, the beliefs, events, etc. depicted in this work do not in any way represent the opinions, actions, etc. of the writer. Reader discretion is thusly advised.  
Spoilers: Set during the second part of "The End of Time", so consider yourself warned.  
A/N: Just my lowly attempt at making sense of the Master's last actions/words.

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**Common Time  
**

_Definition: musical metre consisting of four quarter notes to the measure_

"... diseased". That is what the haughty - _mouldy_ - President of the Time Lord High Council said. _No. Infamous, why, thank you. Malignant, if you prefer ... but not diseased_.

"You are diseased, albeit, a disease of our own making." The bombaster was _still_ talking, and it was salt to the wound, a poorly-faceted white point star diamond to the eyes. The Master, the _Lord_ Master, could feel indignation flaring, burning as his life force was wont to do since that botched resurrection. Women. Once this situation was behind him he would have one pay for his sweet Lucy's betrayal. One female was as good as any other, after all. No, he wasn't un_sound_, pathological, in need of medical attention, a _physician_ ...

... and as if on cue, there _he_ was, the Doctor himself, pointing that toy gun, wobbling like a badly synchronised temporal stream between two true lords of time. Twice. Twice that primitive ballistics mechanism was aimed in the Master's direction, and twice the pounding in his head and chest figuratively dodged said bullet. Coward. The Doctor never would. The Master _knew_ the Doctor never would. As much as the Doctor said he knew the Master, the Master knew the good Doctor. Yes, for a fraction of a nanosecond it looked like his fellow renegade might. But a slight shake of the head, an accumulation of moisture about the eyes, and the outcome was certain. To an onlooker the emotion appeared genuine, and of course it was. Anyone versed in disguise grasped that even the most perfect mask needed a glazing of truth. Unnerved by the prospect of truly dying? It couldn't be helped. But _here_, _now_, by _him_? Never.

"Get out of the way." That is what Gandalf said as he aimed for the cannibalised medical contraption which had pierced the time lock, and finally fired. _I'll deal with the Balrog. Fly, you fools._ Sometimes the Master was amazed by his own sheer brilliance, even in the assigning of passing monikers. Yes, he did step to the side, but only to leave the path clear for him to tell the Doctor the same. The Master would ascend, rise into glory, force the life from his dying body and into the rip tide between realities the straining time lock was leaving in its wake. The drums were still calling him, from this side of the time lock, and they would alight the way home. The musty ignoramuses which had once passed for the ruling elite of his people, _they_ were _his_ salvation - having planted the mental seeds of ultimate transubstantiation - not the other way around.

As for the Doctor? A martyr without his martyrdom. Oh, surely he would think the Master one, though. The prodigal son redeemed at death's door, turning a new silver leaf as said foliage fell vibrantly from the Gallifreyian tree of life. Let him. Why not? The ultimate satisfaction of his heartsbroken face when the Master descended from on glorious high to show him how wrong he was, choking any further words of forgiveness in his throat ... _that_ would be enough. Did the Doctor think he was the only one who could hear the Ood singing? Did everyone really think it began and ended with the disciples of the secret Book of Saxon? Even on Sol Three there remained the Swiss Order of Lord Keller. Oh no, there were many many more, proselytes scattered about time and space and only a subspace hypnotic prompt away from beginning their life's work, or _his_ life's work, as it were ...

The Master's face twisted into a determined scowl. They never listened, _really_ listened. Yet the Master knew, could feel it deep within the rare terror of quiet. Those milliseconds where the diastole between heartbeats coincided with a pause in the tympanic metre throbbing within his skull. Another favourable causation instantiation would present itself. The Master would weave it into something magnificent, and that filthy little planet, its mediocre galaxy, the universe, as well as the Doctor, would be forced to see the truth. That he was not a king of any mere wasteland, a _handsome_ jack of any trade, profession, vocation, calling, world, galaxy, universe, Lord President, High Council, sanctimonious old friend, or even time itself ... but a true Master of all.

He smiled as the Doctor heeded his order, and fell by the wayside. Good dog. This was _his_ moment, _his_ revenge, and words were burning hotly, yet not nearly as intensely as the life energy crackling forth from open palms.

"You did this to me!" _Oh, yes you did, Mister Lord President, sir. And for that you will pay, because I don't believe in sparing the messenger. But it was destiny pulling the strings - lovely women, those Fates - not you._

"All of my life!" _these drums followed me, __chose_ me. Drove me to pursue greatness that was my due. Saved me from the dark. Hardened me against you, all of you. You who raised me in nobility and splendour and superiority, but held me back with ridicule and rules.

"You made me!" _do this, forced my hand. If only you had accepted me with open arms. We could have ascended together, you decrepit old fool. You don't deserve eternity. I do._

"One! Two! Three! Four!"

_Four. Three. Two. One._

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A/N: Thank you for getting this far, even though it is horribly short XD This was actually a log sample for an online RP application, but I thought it did well enough on its own to post. As usual, any and all feedback is love :)


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